Storm, Meet Raine

Graduation.

HER.

     My finger trails across the row of DVD cases on the bookshelf right next to the TV. They were labeled by the decade. I was excited for a nice, late 90s chick flick, while Carson was pushing my fingers out of the way, wanting something gory and gross. "I want to snuggle and watch a cute romance," I whisper to his bicep, his height looming over my small stature in the darkness of the living room, the only light that we had was the soft glow in the kitchen. Now that Karlo had left early upon Caprice's command, there was no one to make us snacks.

     That's next on our list. Assuming, we can agree on a movie. "Pretty Woman!" I shout, sliding the rectangular case from the shelf. It's plucked out of my hands, and just as easily pushed back in its proper spot.

     "You don't have to watch Pretty Woman, you already are one, dumbass." I frown, crossing my arms over my chest to glare at his dimple-grinning face. "Jacob's Ladder," he holds up, the smile still on his face even after he sees my horrified expression. I snatch the movie from his hand, and put it back on the shelf closer to the bottom.

     "The Notebook."

     "No, Wishmaster."

     "Yuck, Selena."

     "Heck no."

     He picks up Rush Hour, and we silently agree. He pops open the case, and places the CD into the player sitting on the tv stand a few feet away from us. "Do you want to go get snacks?" He nods his head toward the dimly lit kitchen, hair falling over his face as he searched for the tv remote.

     "Come with me?" I ask. "Then I'll help you find the remote." I turn on my heel, my socks causing me to slide slightly across the floor. I yelp, throwing my arms out to catch my balance, and shiver when rough hands catch me by my sides. Carson and I both snicker together before he guides me into Karlo's favorite room of the house.

     He turns the dial on the wall, brightening up the kitchen and heads to the big, double door refrigerator. "Drinks?"

     "I want something sweet," I lean against the counter next to the sink, watching his backside as he searches the fridge. He bends over, looking through drawers, pulling and pushing them, his arms working a task not difficult, but the veins in his forearms clearly wanted to show off. I admired the end of his sleeve tattoo, a serpent's tail sharply curving into an arrow. He pulls out a case of pink lemonade. "Your mom will be pissed if we drink that whole thing."

     "No she won't," he smirks, "It's Caleb's."

     We pop some popcorn, about three bags and dump it into a big mixing bowl. We set about six cans of lemonade (half the box) into Tupperware filled with ice so that it stays cold during our movie night, and I look for something else. Carson's hand is planted firm on my butt as I look in the pantry for cookies, claiming that he's helping me, but I'm standing on a step stool, so he's not doing anything helpful.

     His right hand gives my cheek a good squeeze. "Oh by the way, cookies are in the cookie jar on the counter you were by earlier."

     "You're a perv!" I turn around, stepping down and pushing him out of my way so I can get to the cookies. There they were, set on the granite countertop in a glass jar. Chocolate chip cookies. Now, chocolate chip cookies and pink lemonade don't get along very well, but that's okay because the popcorn should buffer that, right?

     I take out only two, wanting to be respectful of his mom's baked treats. Of course, if she were down here, she'd be annoyed that I'd even think like this, and tell me to eat the whole jar if I liked because she loves baking anyway.